


Wherefore He Broke the Close

by dicks



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 11:16:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7265938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dicks/pseuds/dicks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It turned out to be something else entirely than a comfort fuck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wherefore He Broke the Close

  
It was through Giotto that they first met.  
  
It happened in Cianciana, over a pot of scalding hot but weak, black tea; because in all his substantial brilliance and grandeur, Giotto would made the worst host ever, and occasionally a horrible friend and Lampo should really be banned from the kitchen, most likely forever.  
  
G breathed in the damp weather, breathed out, and took a long drag of his cigarette, “Your hat is ridiculously stupid.”  
  
“Ahh, that was G’s colorful way of greeting.” Giotto said quickly, probably because he felt the need to make up for the ghastly pot of brew.  
  
G smirked and Ugetsu beamed while fiddling with his flute.  
  
-  
  
They lived in a moderate house, but big enough to accommodate six men, adults, which two of them were probably a mentally deranged, a priest, an overgrown baby, and G didn’t even want to know what was hiding behind Giotto’s closet door; it was close to a madhouse. And back then, when they were first moved in, G made an unspoken claim on the small room at the back of the house and turned it into an office and even Giotto had no admission unless permitted, but yet, subtlety apparently did _not_ work on Ugetsu or perhaps he was just being blissfully ignorant because G was still glowering and Ugetsu kept flipping through his book from across the table.  
  
Less than thirty minutes was all he could take before he put down the pen he was holding and scowled at the man with the ridiculous hat in front of him, “What the fuck do you want?”  
  
Ugetsu looked up from his book, shook his head lightly, amused, and went back to reading.  
  
It wasn’t like G hadn’t tried, he really did; two days later after their first introduction in that very room, his protests went from, _we have enough men Giotto and we don’t even know if he can be trusted_ , to, _he doesn’t seem capable_ , and then, _oh for fuck’s sake Giotto, he’s wearing a fucking dress!_ But Giotto was such a horrible friend sometimes, and that was one of the occasions where G felt compelled to throttle his said friend.  
  
“Do you want some more tea?”  
  
G grunted, and he knew he should be snarling, throwing tantrums and kicking Ugetsu out of his vicinity but instead he lifted his pen, wordlessly, and let Ugetsu poured him a new cup.  
  
-  
  
Well, G thought later, at least Ugetsu made decent tea.  
  
-  
  
G tried not dwell on it. Some days he stood on the balcony and smoked his lungs raw, trying not to think about the way Ugetsu eyes strayed over him under the dark lashes, like he was secretly amused, like he was secretly bewildered, and the way Ugetsu smiled at him like he was smiling from his heart and it irked G to no end. Or how, Ugetsu calm and serene and all of them sitting in the kitchen like sort of a dysfunctional family over a pot of coffee with milk and bread with cherry marmalade, Ugetsu would refill G’s cup or place a plate of brioche in front of him and G couldn’t help feeling that there was something terrifyingly more to that, more than just simple etiquette.  
  
“You’re uncharacteristically and extremely quiet. Should I be worried?” Knuckle had said one morning and G almost choked on his coffee with the sudden awareness that he had been watching Ugetsu’s fingers drumming on the tabletop longer than necessary.  
  
But he snorted into his cup instead.  
  
-  
  
They went back to Kyoto and Ugetsu took them all to his favorite sushi eating-house, then to a sento before back to his house. From the other side of the room, Lampo complained endlessly to Giotto about how he couldn’t sleep on a futon, honestly, and Daemon stood at the corner of the garden talking to himself and occasionally to the snow willow tree, and G found himself smoking on the porch with Ugetsu next to him.  
  
“If you start blowing that flute of yours, I’ll kill you dead.”  
  
Ugetsu laughed breezily as if G had said something witty, sobered up, but still smiling with his eyes, “This is the house I grew up in,” then he pointed to the black pine tree. “—and that was the exact spot where I got this scar,” he said, massaging the base of his neck, near the collarbone like it ached.   
  
“You poor, miserable bastard,” G tutted scornfully and watched the way Ugetsu’s hand worked on his nape, watched the way he pressed the pad of his fingers on the muscle; kneading the flesh lightly, “You bastard, really,” and without missing a beat G pulled Ugetsu in roughly by the scruff and kissed him.  
  
-  
  
G was far from prudish. He fucked both women and men but never more than once, and kept everything else apart, into separate, proportional fragments, and there were those times, good times with Alaude between handcuffs and adrenaline rushes but those were okay because Alaude was just as fucked up as G was. And if you were to ask him later, G would probably deny it, but kissing Ugetsu felt like everything else he had never felt before, somewhat foreign, somewhat unnamed, and Ugetsu chuckled in his kiss, and pulled G closer like he wanted this all along.   
  
But it was important to separate those pieces and G would probably commit seppuku before letting himself lose control over something frivolous, like curious hands against his spine.  
  
Later at night, he left the room he was sharing with Giotto and slipped into Alaude’s, and he couldn’t help feeling like there was something inconspicuously astray and scattered, as he bent Alaude over the small table near the futon and fucked him raw.  
  
-  
  
The thing was, G wasn’t sure what to make of Ugetsu because he smiled when G snarled, he laughed when G threatened to kill him; he was there, sticking out like a sore thumb, sitting next to G during negotiations, and he patched G’s wounds when he got a little too careless and shared a pot of tea in the evenings in the cramped office. The kiss was never mentioned.   
  
“You seem to get along with Ugetsu very well,” Giotto said, looking up from the newspaper he was reading.  
  
They were back in Cianciana and the air was too hot and too dry compared to Japan and G felt like there was an invisible itch underneath his skin and he kept rubbing the tattoo on his temple, contemplating stripping and running naked around the compound.  
  
“You two make such a good combination,” Giotto said again when G ignored him, smirking like a bastard as he always was.   
  
“It’s too hot in here,” G said, “—would you mind if I strip?”  
  
-  
  
G knew Giotto, his secrets, like Giotto knew his, and was willing to put his life at risk for the other man because their friendship was the only solid thing, something monumental and more than just temporary, that G had ever had. They kept each other out of trouble, a stable root in the ground when one of them was at the edge of falling apart, and G had seen Giotto at his best and at his worst and they had spent countless mornings arguing over something achingly inane, like how G should stop fucking everything that moved or the color of Giotto’s hair; and G honored Giotto when probably he shouldn’t have because sometimes in Giotto’s nonsensical way of thinking, he acted like he knew too much, like he could read G thoroughly just by the surface, and perhaps Giotto was right when he said G was a wreck waiting to be cracked.  
  
“What are you waiting for?”  
  
G stared at Giotto darkly because _maybe_ Giotto was right, but that did not mean G had to agree all the same.  
  
-  
  
“You look like shit,” G said and it was true. In the end he found Ugetsu in his room, huddled at the corner of the bed, broken and miserable and looking utterly lost without his hat.  
  
“That was my first.” Ugetsu said quietly.  
  
G walked over and put his hand on Ugetsu’s knee, awkwardly because G wasn’t one to comfort and, most likely, was the last person who should be trying, but he remembered being thirteen and stabbing a man for the first time, the amount of blood in his palms and Giotto’s arms around him, whispering, _never again, never, never ever—_  
  
G wasn’t one to comfort obviously, but Ugetsu was watching him intensely, wide-eyed and unguarded, and G couldn’t stop from reaching out.  
  
-  
  
It turned out to be something else entirely than a comfort fuck.   
  
-  
  
In the morning, G woke up and found himself tangled in the sheets on a bed that definitely was not his, but what the hell, G thought, and then brushed his knuckles lightly against Ugetsu’s naked back.  
  
-  
  
It was through Giotto that they first met.  
  
It happened in Cianciana, and G twitched and bristled and hissed at the tea pot and then his half-lidded-eyes fell onto Ugetsu, stalling, and in perfect Japanese he said, “Your hat is ridiculously stupid.”  
  
“Ahh, that was G’s colorful way of greeting.”   
  
G smirked and Ugetsu was completely smitten.  
  
-


End file.
